Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty-Three

Hugh chose one of the marked trails into the mountain and immediately remembered another detail from the past, that of the venerable bench inspector - the bird-stained bench was as old as he was - the multi-placed bench Rotten in dark corners, with yellow leaves below and green above; by an absolutely idyllic footpath leading up to a waterfall.He remembered the inspector's pipe with its Bohemian jewel set in it (in harmony with its owner's boiled nose), and Almanda's habit of looking at the rubbish under the cracked seat while the old fellow looked at her. Like to exchange some nasty obscenities with him in Swiss and German.

Now, the area has added some climbing routes and ropeways for tourists, and a new car road has been built from Werther to the cable car station, but Almanda and her friends usually go to the cable car station on foot.On the day that Hugh was going to climb the mountain, he studied the public map carefully, a large patriotic map, or torture map, posted on the notice board near the post office.At this point, if he wants to get to the glacier slopes in a comfortable way, he can take the new bus from Witte to the Draconita cable car station.However, he wanted to do it the old hard way, and through impressive forests on the way up.He hoped that the Draconita gondola would be just as he remembered it—a small cockpit with two benches facing each other.The cable car was traveling upward in the air, about twenty yards or so from a sod-covered slope in the hollow between the fir grove and the alder bushes, and every thirty seconds or so passed a tower pole with a sudden bump Noise and chatter, but otherwise it glides well.

Hugh's recollections centered on a trail marked by several kinds of trees and several lumber paths that led to the first difficult stage of the climb--by the first difficult stage, I mean a disorganized pile of boulders and jumbled A clump of rhododendrons, trudge through among them, and go up to the cable car.No wonder he lost his way so quickly. Meanwhile, his memories kept following secret paths in his own mind.She rushed forward relentlessly, and he fell behind her, panting again.She was teasing Jacques again, the handsome Swiss boy with fox red hair and sleepy eyes.She flirts with her eclectic British twin, who call the valleys Cool Wars and the ridges Ah Rates.Hugh, for all his size, had neither leg strength nor lung capacity to match them, even in memory.The four of them sped up the climb, and with a relentless arsenal of picks, rope loops, and other exhausting implements (ignorance exaggerated the usefulness of such equipment), they disappeared.Resting on a rock, he looked down, and through the flowing mist he seemed to see mountains forming beneath the feet of those who had caused him pain, a crystalline crust rising from the bottom of the ancient ocean with his heart.On the whole, however, they would urge him not to be left behind, even if they were not out of the forest; it was a dark field of old fir trees, with steep muddy paths and wet willow-flower bushes in between.

Now he was climbing up through the woods, panting in agony, as he used to follow behind Almanda's golden scruff or a large rucksack carried by a naked man.It didn't take long before the pressure from the top of his right shoe scraped off a small patch of skin at the knuckle of the third toe, forming a red eye that burned through every poor imagination there.At last he left the forest behind, to a stony field and a barn he thought he remembered, but the creek where he had washed his feet and the dilapidated building that suddenly filled the gaps in his mind. The bridge was never seen again.He kept going.It seemed to be a little brighter, but the sun was quickly covered by clouds again.The trail leads to the ranch area.He saw a big white butterfly fall down and spread out on a rock.Its paper-thin wings, stained with black and faded crimson spots, with nasty folds at the transparent edges, fluttered slightly in the desolate wind.Hugh hated insects of all kinds, and this butterfly was particularly repulsive.Suddenly, however, an unearthly pity overcame his impulse to crush it rashly with his boot.He vaguely felt that it must be tired and hungry. If he moved it to a small pink flower nearby like a pincushion, it would be very grateful, so he bent down to catch it, but after a while It fluttered wildly, finally it was not covered by his handkerchief, flapped its wings indiscriminately to overcome gravity, and flew away vigorously.

He walked up to a signpost.It was another forty-five minutes to Lammerspitz, and two and a half hours to Limperstein.This is not the way to the Glacier Gondola.The distances marked on road signs seemed as vague as dreams. Beyond the signpost, the path was lined with domed gray rocks covered with patches of black moss and pale green lichen.He looked up at the clouds in the sky, which obscured the distant peaks or the fat-like depressions between them.There is no point in continuing to climb up in solitude.Had she ever walked here, and had the soles of her shoes carved delicate patterns in the dirt here?He pored over the remains of a lonely picnic, fragments of eggshells that had been cracked by another lone traveler who had sat here a few minutes earlier, and a crumpled plastic bag in which a pair of The woman's hands filled the bag with small tongs in quick succession of apple slices, black dried plums, raisins, slimy mashed bananas—all digested now.A gray curtain of drizzle will soon engulf everything.The bald spots on his head felt the rain's first kiss and went back to the woods and widowhood.

Days like this rested his eyesight and gave his other senses a chance to function more freely.The world gradually lost all color.It is raining, or pretending to be raining, or not raining at all, but it still seems to be raining in the sense that only certain old dialects of the northern lands can express in words, or instead of expressing, let You are aware, in a way, by the tinkle of a drizzle falling on a long-awaited rosebush. "It rains in Wittenberg, but not in Wittgenstein." This is an unnoticed joke in Many Metaphors.